


Deal with the Devil

by darkandstormyslash



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Caning, Canon-Typical Violence, Groping, Gun Violence, M/M, Partial Nudity, Spanking, beating up a man tied to a chair, hurt comfort where the comfort is replaced with more hurt, kicking, negotiation of sex for favours, spitting, tommy gets beaten up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 23:40:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15035843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkandstormyslash/pseuds/darkandstormyslash
Summary: "There has to be a way, Tommy thinks frantically, a way to turn this around. If he can get Alfie back on his side, if he can convince Sabini not to kill him, he might still be in with a chance. How he's going to manage all that while tied to a chair with Darcy Sabini screaming in his face he isn't sure."I finally wrote a caning story. Although instead of being a sexy little piece of smut, it turned into gratuitous whump where Sabini orders Alfie to hurt Tommy. Enjoy!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There is awesome art for this one as well, from the amazing @pure-bastard-extract - go check it out!
> 
> The sfw fanart (Tommy tied to a chair): https://pure-bastard-extract.tumblr.com/post/175259880047/thank-you-darkandstormyslash-for-writing-deal  
> The nsfw fanart (Tommy getting thrashed): https://pure-bastard-extract.tumblr.com/post/175486061602/another-piece-based-on-deal-with-the-devil-by

"You think you can make a fool of me!" Darby Sabini yells into Tommy's face, so close that Tommy automatically tries to lean back and is pulled short by the rope which ties him to the chair. "Coming down to London, talking about allegiances, playing us both against each other, you think I'm an idiot?"

"Yeah that was a bit naughty, Tommy." Alfie rumbles from somewhere behind him.

"Or maybe you just think you're clever..." Sabini spits, and Tommy can't help flinching as a piece of saliva lands on the side of his cheak. It's followed swiftly by Sabini's hand, snapping across his face. "Is that it? You think you're cleverer than us?"

Tommy doesn't answer, but he's pretty sure his thoughts about the relative intelligence of himself and Darby Sabini are visible on his face, because Sabini slaps him again, then swears foully in his face.

"You are going to fucking regret ever walking into London. Isn't that right Alfie?"

Alfie's expression is less angry, Tommy notes. If anything the man looks mildly disappointed. He can't tell if Alfie is disappointed to find that he's been double-crossed, or disappointed that Tommy's been caught out at such a basic game. There has to be a way, Tommy thinks frantically, a way to turn this around. If he can get Alfie back on his side, if he can convince Sabini not to kill him, he might still be in with a chance. How he's going to manage all that while tied to a chair with Darcy Sabini screaming in his face he isn't sure.

Tommy keeps his eyes fixed on Alfie, trying to pour enough desperation, hope, and promises of future loyalty into that gaze to at least keep Solomons interested. He can't do anything to change Sabini's mind, but there's something in the curious way Solomons looks at him which tells Tommy he might be in with a chance. Sure enough Alfie's eyes narrow slightly as Tommy stares at him, and his head gives a little warning shake. Quite what that means is anyone's guess.

Sabini finishes his tirade and leans back, spitting directly into Tommy's face and then turning to Solomons. "Right, finish him off. I want this double-crossing little half-gypsy bastard floating in the fucking Thames by this time tomorrow."

Tommy's heart skips a beat as Alfie pulls out a gun and points it at his head. There's a second, then another second, and then Tommy knows with a rush of relief that he is not going to die today. Alfie Solomons does not wait two seconds before killing a man. If Alfie isn't shooting him it's for a reason, and if Alfie has a reason to not kill him it means Tommy has a chance of leaving the room in one piece. Or at least alive.

Alfie knocks the gun against Tommy's head a few times, "If I pull this trigger." He says eventually, his words careful and slow, "Can you stand there and promise me that there aren't six mad Irish blokes and a few bent Specials that won't come after me? Or even someone from higher up, you know what I mean?"

"You think anyone will bother to protect him?" Sabini sneers.

"I think it wouldn't do you any harm if somebody does take an interest, and I end up quietly put away one night." Alfie points out.

"Nobody gives a shit about him!"

The gun knocks against Tommy's jaw, hard enough to make his teeth rattle. "You shoot him then."

There's silence. Sabini is standing behind him so Tommy can't see the man's expression but he can practically hear him thinking. Alfie waits patiently, loaded gun pushed up under Tommy's jaw while Alfie's free hand pets at the back of his head and his shoulders.

"You really think he'll be trouble if he's dead?" Sabini asks eventually, sounding dubious. He might not be convinced but the seeds of doubt have been sown. "Last thing I need is trouble with the IRA, not here."

"Oh he's trouble." Alfie's hand slides along the side of Tommy's jaw, pushing his head back further. "Nothing but."

"I want him fucking dead."

"I'm not having it on my hands mate, not with everything he's wrapped up in. You want him dead, you fucking shoot him." The gun is withdrawn from Tommy's face, and Alfie hands it out to Sabini, who scowls at it.

"If you can't kill him, Alfie, you can at least make him wish you had."

Tommy keeps his face neutral. There's a brief moment, a hesitation where Sabini's eyes narrow, and then Solomons shrugs.

"Yeah, why not, fair enough eh?"

Stomach first, and Alfie's fists are hard and uncompromising as they twist into soft tissue and knock against bone. Stomach, ribs, then face, as Tommy twitches and whimpers in the chair, legs scraping against the floor. Alfie hauls up his hair with one hand and caves in his face with the other, his knuckles scraping against Tommy's cheekbone and smashing into the side of his jaw. Collarbone, solar-plexus, elbow, and Tommy is suddenly thankful for the ropes that at least protect some of his body from the damage that Alfie's inflicting.

"Get him out of the chair." Sabini snaps. Alfie drags out a knife and presses it against the side of Tommy's face in a silent warning before lowering it to slice through the ropes. Tommy collapses to the floor in a heap, glaring at Alfie's boot as it gently nudges him to stand up. He needs Alfie, but that doesn't mean he has to like this.

"It'll hurt worse with a kicking." Alfie warns and Tommy groans, pushing himself up slowly. He gets as far as his knees before Alfie's fist sends him tumbling back down again.

Sabini laughs, ugly and brutal.

It happens a few more times before Tommy is content to just lie still and try to protect the more delicate of his organs from Alfie's heavy boots. Every part of him hurts now, bright lightning-sharp pain that threatens to fog his mind and blur his senses. He almost doesn't notice when it stops, he's so busy trying to keep his brain together for the deal he'll need to make when this is over.

"Don't fucking stop!" Sabini yelps as Alfie's boot withdraws.

"I kick him anymore, he's gonna rupture something." Alfie snaps back, sounding angry.

"Do I look like I give a shit what state he's in?"

"Dead in hospital is still dead."

Sabini scowls, coming over and prodding Tommy's prone form with his foot. "You want to just let him walk out?"

"Nah. He can't walk. Made sure of that."

Tommy twitches and retches, trying to push himself up and quickly stopping as Sabini's shoe lands hard on his fingers.

"I want him..." Sabini snarls, "To feel physically sick at the thought of ever coming back to London again. I want the sight of this city on a fucking _postcard_ to make him piss himself. I want him fucking broken."

"I ain't kicking him anymore." Alfie sounds very angry now, and Tommy can't work out whether the anger is directed at him or Sabini. His mouth is full of blood and he's not sure where it's from. His right shin feels like someone's scraped it down to the bone then set it on fire. He wonders if Alfie broke the leg, it certainly feels bad.

"Thrash him then." Sabini snaps irritably, "You've got a cane, haven't you?"

Alfie has a cane. Tommy stares at it dully, watching the way Alfie's knuckles whiten against it. For a wild moment Tommy thinks Alfie's about to swing it right at Sabini's head. It might just be a figment of his bruised and fuzzy brain, but he's almost certain Sabini takes a wary step backwards at the look in Alfie's eyes. But then Alfie's hand is in the back of Tommy's shirt and Tommy is swung over the table like a sack of potatoes. For a moment the world unfocuses and slips down into blessed darkness. When he comes back up again his shirt is rucked up to his neck and his trousers are down on the floor.

"Don't you fucking dare." He mumbles at the table surface.

Solomons fingers twist in his hair again, and Solomons's breath is soft against the side of his face as he whispers. "You have a charmed life, Tommy Shelby, and I want fifty percent of your businesses in London."

If Tommy had the energy he knows he would scream. Only Alfie would try to double-cross a man currently standing in front of him, a man who right now is staring with malicious delight at Tommy's semi-naked body. And only Alfie would decide to make a deal with a man in between breaking his leg and caning him.

"Twenty percent." Tommy murmurs back, not even sure if his voice is loud enough to hear. It might even be too loud, it's hard to tell with the rushing in his ears. Clearly it's not the right answer though, because Alfie taps his arse gently with the cane and then whips it back to draw a neat red line of fire across the pale skin.

To his alarm, Tommy can feel tears in the corner of his eyes, as if he hadn't been caned enough at school. Never for anything he'd done, mind, because young Tommy Shelby wasn't daft enough to get caught, but always for things he couldn't help; running late, shoes falling apart, a missing exercise book. Punishment in Tommy Shelby's life has always come randomly, unrelated to the laws he's broken or the crimes he's committed.

Alfie hums, "Forty five" under his breath as the cane whistles down across Tommy's backside twice more.

Sabini is right there in front of them. Tommy feels the tears prickle against his eyes, stinging gently while the cane across his arse stings fiercely. It should be nothing compared to the boot against his broken ribs, but somehow being slung half naked over a table and whipped is digging into someplace deeper. Alfie cracks the cane down to land over the previous strokes and Tommy howls loud enough to make Sabini jump. Alfie gives a concerned little grunt and Tommy feels the tears sliding unbidden down his face.

Alfie's hand reaches forward to smooth a hand over the marks and Tommy just cannot stop sobbing. Each gasp for breath hurts his ribs and only makes him cry more.

"Is he ... crying?" Sabini sounds more shocked than triumphant, moving closer to peer at Tommy's face and then stepping back as a large angry Alfie Solomons suddenly looms next to him.

"Yeah he's crying, now fuck off."

"Don't you speak to me like-"

"You wanted him broken, and I fucking broke him." Alfie's rage is towering and Sabini takes another step back. "Aright mate? It's done. You're done here. I'll get him packed off back north."

Sabini's eyes flicker to where Tommy is still twitching over the table, his tears tracking down into the wood. He looks for a moment as if he's about to ask exactly what Alfie plans to do with a half naked red-raw Tommy Shelby, but Darby Sabini is not a brave man.

"Just make sure I never fucking hear from him again, alright?" He snaps. Alfie gives a grunt in reply that Sabini decides to take for a yes as he scuttles out.

Then it's just Alfie and Tommy in the room.

Alfie comes back to the table, as Tommy Shelby's sobs die down into gentle sniffles. Gently his hand rests on the back of Tommy's neck, his thumb teasing against the shaved stubble on the back of Tommy's head. "You're a stubborn little bastard, you are. It's your own damn fault for getting caught."

Tommy wants to stop, he wants to sleep, he wants to close his eyes and let the world fade blissfully into black until his body has knitted itself together again, but he can't do that. He has to make this deal now, while Alfie is still reasonably well disposed towards him, "My business in London will cover all the racetracks." He manages, his voice hoarse and dry, "All the betting rings this side of the river, and a fair few clubs. I'm offering you twenty percent of that for just standing aside and letting me finish off Sabini."

There's a pause, and he thinks he hears Alfie make an approving noise before he picks up the cane again, lying it gently across the red lines on Tommy's arse. "Thirty five, and that's a good deal."

"Twenty five." Tommy rasps. His mind sways and his body tenses in anticipation of another stroke. At least it'll be easier to manage now that Sabini is out of the room.

The stroke never comes. Instead Alfie just stands behind him, patting his arse with the cane repeatedly until Tommy whimpers in itching anticipation. "Do you know why I didn't kill you, Tommy Shelby? It wasn't for twenty five percent."

"Thirty." Tommy whispers, his legs scrabbling weakly then giving out completely leaving him hanging on the table against his bruised ribs.

"You should be dead." The cane keeps tapping against his backside and Tommy gives a groan. "Several times over from what I've heard. And yet you're not. You're here. With three bruised ribs, an arse begging for more of a thrashing, and offering me thirty fucking percent of something Darby Sabini just offered me half shares in."

Tommy manages another gentle groan. Alfie leans the cane against the table and gently slides his fingers over the marks it left behind. "Do you know, Tommy Shelby, what he thinks I'm doing to you in here?"

"Thirty percent." Tommy mumbles stubbornly. "Because I'll deliver, and you know Sabini won't."

"I asked you a question." The fingers pinch tightly into the damaged skin and Tommy tries to kick back but his legs just aren't strong enough. His brain is muzzy and he can't think. All he wants right now is Alfie - Alfie to make things stop hurting, Alfie to agree to work with him, Alfie to help him bring down Sabini and shoot him through the head.

It takes a few moments for Tommy to work out the answer in his head, and by that time Alfie's hands are right between his legs, one gently pinching at his inner thighs while the other slides along the crease of his arse. "I know what he thinks you're doing to me. And if you go ahead and do it, it'll cost you ten percent, Mister Solomons."

Alfie's hands stop moving.

"You introduce me to any form of buggery," Tommy manages, through a thick tongue and tears that sting again in his eyes. "It'll be twenty percent and not a point more. Or you can get me into a taxi to the station and walk away with thirty percent right now."

Alfie's hands leave his legs and slide upwards, gently cradling the underside of Tommy's stomach as they lift him slowly off the table. One limp arm is slung over Alfie's shoulders and Tommy falls heavily against him, his voice still stuttering, "Thirty percent and I'm not going any higher, if I - "

"Stop talking." Alfie says, his voice gruff but gentle. His finger presses over Tommy's split lip and Tommy staggers, clinging onto him. "Your arse is not worth ten percent of all the racecourses in London, Tommy my boy, not in the state it's in at the moment."

Tommy's right shin still feels skinned, but to his shock he finds he can put weight on it. "You didn't break my leg?"

"Didn't break anything." Alfie grunts.

Tommy manages a small wobbly ghost of a smile. "You're losing your touch, Mister Solomons. Thirty percent."

Alfie's hand fits comfortably around the curve of Tommy's arse, holding it firm and tight and Tommy can feel every red line of the cane throbbing into it. "If I'm taking thirty percent, Tommy, you can bend back over that table for five more strokes."

Pain, Tommy thinks, it's just pain. Nothing more. Five strokes across his bruised, naked arse, and he walks away with London in his pocket. Alfie's hand gently squeezes and Tommy can't help a gasp as he splutters out, "Done. You have yourself a deal, Mister Solomons. But if your hand goes anywhere near my arse in the process, it'll drop down to twenty five percent."

Alfie's eyes twinkle as he spits in his hand and holds it out, "Done."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think I can squeeze a few more chapters out of this concept :p. This chapter is a lot more gratuitous and less well written but does contain groping, caning, hand spanking, and Alfie slinging a slur around.

The prospect of punishment seems less intimidating now that it’s just the two of them here making a deal. Tommy’s body is still aching and sore but it seems easier to lay himself over the table, sighing as his trousers pool around his ankles again. Behind him, Alfie makes an approving noise.

“Remember, no touching.” Tommy warns.

Alfie’s laugh is a low rumble, “You’re not really in a position to be making demands now, Mister Shelby.”

“The position I’m in right now, Mister Solomons, I will make any demands I want.”

Another laugh, and Alfie gives a firm pat to his exposed bottom, “Position you’re in right now I might just agree to them. Twenty five percent was it?”

Tommy gives a stilted shrug against the wood, “You could’ve had thirty.”

“I don’t think that was ever going to happen, Tommy, I’ll be honest with you.” Another pat, but this one almost feels comforting. For some reason, in some strange way, he trusts Alfie. Not that he trusts Alfie not to hurt him, or not to sell him out, but he trusts Alfie to keep this strange flung-together relationship that they have intact. There’s a line that can’t be crossed, and while it may be a strange curved and twisted line that spirals in multiple directions it’s still there and Tommy trusts that Alfie knows it.

“Five more strokes.” Alfie says, sounding almost regretful. His hand slides between Tommy’s legs and Tommy snaps them shut, trapping Alfie’s hand between his thighs. “Stop being distracting.”

Tommy squeezes his legs together as tight as he can. “You’ve never tried to get out of a caning?”

“Not like that I haven’t.” Alfie pinches at one of the welts across his arse and Tommy lets his hand free with a small hiss of pain. “I’d hope you haven’t either, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Never bet against a Shelby.” Tommy murmurs into the wood. He hears Alfie make a noise of agreement behind him, and then the cane taps at his arse again. Five strokes, that’s all he has to take, and this time Sabini isn’t here to watch.

_Crack_

He knows it’s coming but the sudden flash of pain across sore skin still catches Tommy off guard. There’s no point trying to keep quiet so he lets himself yell out, one foot kicking against the table leg, the tears smarting up in his eyes again. Alfie’s strong, and he’s not holding back. He seems determined to get his money’s worth out of this.

Alfie’s hand comes back to his arse, and this time Tommy welcomes it, whimpering a little and pushing into the comforting touch that seems too gentle for hands as big and rough as Alfie’s. Tommy hears the sound of a throat clearing from behind him and then Alfie says “You put yourself through a lot of punishment, Tommy, you really do.”

“You don’t _have_ to hit me.” Tommy mutters, but quietly because he doesn’t want another stroke of the cane just yet.

“No I know that but I am enjoying it.” Alfie’s hand squeezes around the side of his arse, his thumb gently stroking up to Tommy’s hip. “I would say you were your own worst enemy but there’s too many other people trying for that position.”

Tommy feels his mouth twist up, “Would you like to be my worst enemy Mister Solomons?”

“I don’t think you would like that at all, Tommy.”

“I don’t think I would.”

“Ready?”

“Not really.”

_Crack_

For the second stroke Tommy manages not to yell, but only by biting down into his shirtsleeve and giving a whine that’s just as loud. He can feel the lines throbbing deep into his arse. The haphazard way they’ve landed means it’s now almost impossible for another to strike without crossing one of them. He reaches back, tentatively at first but then more sure when Alfie doesn’t stop him, his fingers running along the welts left behind.

“You signing your name back there Mister Solomons?”

Alfie chuckles, his hand closing over Tommy’s and guiding him over the ravaged skin. “That’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

There’s an unbelievable amount of heat radiating off his arse. It seems unreal that a simple stroke should cause such a reaction. He’s pretty sure if the rest of the body got so hot on impact Arthur would spontaneously combust every time he got in the ring. “It wouldn’t be for you if my brothers found out.”

“Are you threatening me with Arthur Shelby?” Alfie lifts Tommy’s hand up and out of the way, laying it back down by his head and giving it a little pat. “I think it’s in both of our interests if he doesn’t know the details of this deal, eh?”

“Absolutely.” Tommy murmurs back. If any word of this breaths out his reputation is shot. The famous gangster Tommy Shelby, arse-up and half naked over a table letting himself be whipped and groped. Alfie’s hands are back on him, one cupping the underside of his arse, the other pressing gently down on the small of his back, encouraging him to arch.

“Go on Tommy, lift it up a little more, eh? I’ll try and land it on a place I haven’t hit yet.”

Tommy groans, burying his head in his arm and arching his back as requested, letting his arse press up and outwards into a perfect target.

“Your ears have gone all red.” Alfie observes raising the cane again. Tommy doesn’t dignify that with an answer.

_Crack_

True to his word, Alfie manages to strike across a new patch, landing the cane directly up and into the gentle crease of skin where Tommy’s arse joins his legs. There’s a faint twitching smile on his face at the resulting scrabbling and swearing against the table that continues for a good few minutes before Tommy can breath normally again.

“Felt that did you?”

“Fuck!”

“Well I would do Tommy, but it’ll cost me 10% and it’s still not worth that.”

“Oh fuck…” Tommy gives a groan of genuine pain. It might have landed across unblemished skin, but it feels like Alfie’s found the most sensitive part of his entire arse and run a lighter across it. He hears Alfie shuffling behind him, and then a faint whiskery kiss lands at the base of his spine.

“Bloody tempting though.” Alfie murmurs into his skin and for a sudden moment Tommy comes dangerously close to agreeing to it, just to try and avoid taking two more strokes of the cane. How much could it hurt? He knows some men enjoy it, maybe it’s not so bad getting fucked up the arse. Maybe the pain there is fleeting, or cancelled out by some deeper pleasure. It certainly can’t hurt worse than that cane stroke did.

Alfie stands up again and Tommy starts to feel himself panic. He can’t take much more, his body is overloading on pain and he just wants it to stop. Maybe Alfie senses it somehow, because his hand once again strokes gently at Tommy’s backside and he clears his throat before saying, “That takes us down to 27% Mister Shelby, if that’s a deal you’re interested in?”

Fuck it. The difference between 25 and 27 doesn’t seem worth another deep biting burn against his backside. “That sounds like a good deal to me.”

The cane is leant gently against the table, and then both hands are on his arse, covering it completely as Alfie squeezes tight. His head bends low next to Tommy’s face and Tommy stares into his eyes. He can tell Alfie is about to speak and so seizes the initiative quickly, trying to get as much low anger into his voice as he can while keeping it steady. “Did you enjoy that Mister Solomons?”

Alfie’s eyebrows raise in surprise, taken aback by the sudden change in tone. His hand gives a firm warning pat to Tommy’s backside, “Don’t start climbing back onto the moral high ground now, Tommy, not when you’ve almost whored your arse out for a London racecourse.”

“Get your hands off me.”

One hand momentarily lifts away, but then comes back with a firm _smack_ over skin and Tommy whimpers, trying to stop his eyes filling up with tears when they’re only a few inches away from Alfie’s. “Is this really how you want to leave things between us, Tommy?”

“This is exactly how I want to leave things – ow!” Alfie’s hand lands again and the tears tumble down in hot anger as Alfie’s other hand gently wraps around under his head and holds him close. “Y-you’ve taken what you wanted.”

“I took what was offered.” Alfie rumbles against him, and Tommy presses his face into Alfie’s shirt and breathes deep. “Don’t try and pretend otherwise, not to me, and not to yourself.”

It’s comforting and warm in the strange half-embrace of Alfie’s shirt. Tommy feels himself calming a little, or more accurately he finds himself realising just how wound up he was. The fear of being shot by Sabini had never really died away, his body taught and tense waiting for the shot. He feels like he’s been waiting for that shot for several years. Now he can let himself relax, falling bonelessly into Alfie’s body against the table. He feels fuzzy, his mind disjointed and unconnected, with only Alfie’s hands keeping him attached to reality.

“What happened here,” Alfie continues philosophically, “Is that you double crossed me, got caught, then tried to get out of it with a few slaps. I will not have you leaving this room believing I somehow took an evil advantage of you because that is not something I do, Tommy Shelby, even to dirty little double-crossing gypsy bastards who wave their arse at me, understood?”

Tommy isn’t sure he quite agrees with Alfie’s definition of ‘a few slaps’ but he nods into the shirt.

“Good.” The hand pats at his backside again and Tommy knows with a leaden certainty what’s going to happen next. “Ready?”

A breath, and then another. “Yes. Ready.”

One hand stays wrapped around him, the arm big and comforting. The other raises up and lands another _smack_ against his arse, then again, then Alfie’s hand is striking hard and repeatedly while Tommy sobs into his arms. His brain is more than happy to finally break, to lose himself in the hot terrible pain of it all. No more deals, no twisting plans or trying to double-guess reactions. The only thing in the world now is Alfie and the fire building up against his skin. And all of it comes with the safe and grounding knowledge that he’s not going to die. He’s going to walk out of the door. It’ll pass, _it’ll pass_.

Alfie’s hand methodically works its way across his backside, making sure the fire is spread evenly across the throbbing cane-marks, down to his upper thighs, around to the sides, covering him all over. Tommy makes a gulping noise like a drowning man and Alfie’s hand stops, moving up to pat at his head instead. Below Tommy’s stomach is now some strange unconnected region of his body composed of heat and pain, fusing into his pelvis and thudding down between his legs.

Alfie half lifts him and staggers back to the chair, sitting down and pulling Tommy into his lap. Tommy gives a cry as his sore arse comes up against the rough material of Alfie’s trousers, struggling against the hold as Alfie’s hand rubs soothingly against his back, waiting until he falls still.

It’s Alfie who speaks first, with an embarrassed and apologetic tone. “We probably don’t need to be telling anyone else about this, eh?”

It takes a while for Tommy to make his voice work, and the sound seems to be coming from very far away. “Yes. Except I don’t think I can fucking walk.”

“You’re a clever boy Tommy, you’ll think of some excuse.”

“I am a clever boy.” Tommy repeats, not that he feels particularly clever at the moment.

“Too smart by half.” Alfie pats his back one more time then gives a sigh and hauls them both upright, watching as Tommy staggers sideways trying to pull his trousers up. “Don’t even think about playing that sort of trick again, alright?”

“Double crossing you?” Tommy asks with a pained hiss as his trousers scrape up over the horrible hot mess his arse has now become. There’s a small sad ache between his legs which feels empty and yearning when he’s pretty sure at some point in the previous few hours it was rather disturbingly eager.

“And that.” Is the only reply Alfie gives.


	3. Chapter 3

The drive back to Birmingham almost kills him. Even sitting on a bundled up coat and driving as slowly as he can, the bumpy roads shake his bruised body and re-ignite every slash of the cane across his arse. He staggers out of the car as soon as he gets home, falling over to lie face down on the sofa. He can already tell he’s not going to be sitting down any time soon.

Maybe he can blame internal injuries.

Whatever he blames, he knows he’ll be thinking about Alfie. Even the thought of it now is enough to send the colour flushing up to his face, and Tommy Shelby buries his face in the sofa cushion with a groan. He’s a step away from owning every racecourse in London and all he can think about is how it felt to have his face pressed into Alfie’s shirt, the close and deep smell of it while Alfie’s hands worked over him.

He stays there for a while, letting the throbbing in his arse fade down to manageable levels before hauling himself upright. He needs to move, he needs to act, he needs to share the news with Arthur and John. He needs to stop thinking about London and get himself ready to face Birmingham. The ache is deep and hot inside him. Oh Alfie knew what he was doing, that much is clear. Tommy wonders how many other men have been sent limping away with the marks of Alfie’s cane on them. And _that_ thought makes something ugly and jealous coil up inside his stomach.

He groans again. Why the fuck he is lying here like a jilted lover getting upset about Alfie beating up other men? Time to get to work.

He manages to limp through the next few days, sleeping on his front and pacing around in the office so nobody notices he can’t sit down. The pain fades, but the turmoil in his mind doesn’t and by the fifth day he finds himself turning to Lizzie, visiting her ramshackle little flat and stripping down in the tiny bedroom.

Her fingers slide over the marks that are still left behind, her eyes full of concern. “What happened? How did you-“

“Not important.” Tommy cuts her off, turning and gently threading his fingers through her own. “I just need to know – the men who see you. You and the girls. Do they ever do this sort of thing?”

Lizzie frowns, considering the answer, “Well, a few. There’s Mister Jacobs from the foundry, he likes Hettie to use a belt on him. Or nettles in the summer. I think some of the richer men they’ll take a cane from Sally when she’s all dressed in a corset.”

Tommy blinks slowly. He’d asked the question wondering how many men enjoyed causing pain, if Lizzie had any clients who got off on beating her the way he was sure Alfie had when mistreating Tommy. It hadn’t occurred to him to think of it the other way, to count himself among the kind of men who got a thrill from being mistreated. When Tommy thinks back through all the pain he’s suffered in his life he can’t remember getting _turned on_ by any of it.

Until Alfie. He looks down, face full of shame, and when Lizzie reaches for him he grips her wrists tight, “You cannot tell anyone about this, about these bruises, do you understand?”

She looks back steadily, “Of course I understand. Tommy…if you…”

“Nobody. Including me. We don’t talk about it.” He pulls his clothes back on again, suddenly angry and ashamed. Why is he here talking with Lizzie? There’s only one person he needs to talk to about this, preferably while holding a gun.

He drives back down to London two days later, with the last of the bruises fading out into yellow across his arse. He has a gun tucked in his pocket, but the closer he gets to Alfie’s distillery the less he feels like using it and eventually he leaves it tucked in the glove compartment of the car. He feels wired up with hot nervous energy, his hands twitching and his legs jittery. He isn’t even sure what he wants, he just knows that he can’t leave things like this. He needs to find out what happened between them, if it’s going to happen again, whether it did for Alfie the things it’s doing for him.

Alfie looks up in surprise as Tommy strides into the distillery. “Tommy! This is an unexpected surprise, I was expecting your brother.”

“You’ve got me.” Tommy manages to keep his voice steady. “We need to talk.”

“We are talking, Tommy, that is what you’re doing.”

“We need to talk alone.”

Alfie peers at him inscrutably through his glasses, then nods at the other men in the room. Tommy waits until the place is empty and the door has shut and then all of a sudden he can’t think of what to say. He stays where he is, standing next to the desk while Alfie stares at him and eventually speaks.

“There a reason you’re here, Tommy?”

“We need to talk.” Tommy repeats, because it’s the only thing he’s actually certain of. “About ten percent.”

Alfie hesitates, his hands tightening against his chair, then gives a snort. “Get out.”

“Ten percent Mister Solomons, if you’re willing to consider…”

“Out!” Alfie stands up in a rush and it takes a lot of effort for Tommy to resist the urge to step backwards because Alfie is looking suddenly furious. “You don’t come here to do that to me, Tommy Shelby, and you can get out of my distillery right now before I have you thrown out in pieces.”

“You _beat me_ over a _table_.” Tommy hisses back, taking a step closer and staring Alfie down, the nervous energy bottled up inside him seething up into rage. “You made a deal over my _arse_ Mister Solomons.”

“You do not do that to me.” Alfie’s hand raises and pokes him hard in the chest. “This is a business deal, alright, and it stays that way, we ain’t mixing it up with anything else that might also-“

Tommy’s hands grab at the front of Alfie’s jacket, bunching it up and shoving him backwards, succeeding only because the move takes Alfie completely by surprise. “Except it isn’t a business deal, is it Mister Solomons? Not all the time. It’s business when you want it to be, and it’s your cock when you want it to be, and what I want to know, Mister Solomons, is whether it ever gets to be what _I_ want it to be?”

Alfie blinks rapidly behind the glasses. His hands are almost gentle as they raise to wrap around Tommy’s wrists, but his voice is steal and sharp. “And what exactly do you want it to be, Tommy my boy, because if you can answer that one we might actually be able to do a fucking deal, instead of pissing around shouting at each other, yeah?”

And that’s the rub. That’s the question Tommy doesn’t know how to answer because what he wants things to be, what he needs things to be, and what he’ll make things to be are three drastically different answers. He wants Alfie, he needs a deal, and he knows there’s no way on earth he’ll turn into some pet rent-boy for Alfie to whistle down to London. Belt in the winter, nettles in the summer, he knows what people think of men like _that._

Slowly, he lets go of Alfie’s jacket. His hands stay resting on Alfie’s chest mainly because Alfie has his wrists in a vice-tight grip. Tommy finds himself wondering if those hands will leave bracelet-bruises against the pale skin of his arms. He’s fucked, he’s fucked and he knows it but Tommy Shelby never let a little thing like that get in the way of his plans.

“What exactly do you want, Tommy?” Alfie repeats, less angry and more curious this time. Tommy twists his wrists in Alfie’s grip, watching the way the skin turns and catches, the way Alfie’s knuckles twitch under scarred skin as he adjusts his grip against the movement.

“I think I want to be fucked, Mister Solomons.” Tommy answers eventually, voice soft.

Alfie gives a grunt of agreement, “Think that would do you the world of good, Tommy, honestly I do. And I am not just saying that because I would very much like to be the one to do it. Wound up like a fucking spring you are, and it makes you do daft things.”

Tommy feels his mouth twitch up into a smile, “Daft things like asking violent Jewish gangsters to fuck me?”

“Yes that is the sort of thing I mean, Tommy, definitely. I mean you can’t go around asking just anyone for that, yeah, might get yourself into some serious trouble.”

Tommy’s eyes flicker up to meet Alfie’s, “Am I in serious trouble then, Mister Solomons?”

Alfie lets go of his wrists and Tommy rubs at them gently. He’s not sure how this is going to go, he has no internal script to cover this particular set of circumstances, and by the looks of him Alfie doesn’t either. Tommy fiddles with his cuffs, and Alfie coughs awkwardly glancing at the table. Tommy wonders if he’s meant to go over and bend over it, get his arse out again, show Alfie the bruises, beg demurely like a pretty little damsel getting her first taste of cock.

Slowly he shrugs his jacket off. Alfie’s eyes widen a little but he makes no movement. Waistcoat next, unbuttoned and slipping off his shoulders. Then the shirt … and then Alfie does move, walking over to the door and sliding the dead-bolt across it so nobody can walk in on them.

“You really want to do this?” Alfie asks, half a question, half a warning.

Tommy unbuttons his trousers and slides them down, suddenly wishing he’d left his vest on because he’s pretty sure he looks bloody stupid standing in Alfie’s office in a pair of off-white undershorts. Alfie’s eyes are fixed on him, and it suddenly occurs to Tommy that even though he’s mostly naked and just asked for a fuck he’s hardly the powerless one in this situation. There’s a note of fear in Alfie’s eyes, a deep shuttered uncertainty as if he’s not sure how far he’s being played or used. Tommy feels that if he goes too far Alfie might panic enough to hit him, and as soon as he has that thought he starts to wonder just where ‘too far’ is and how he can find it.

Alfie slowly walks around his body, reaching up a hand to lightly press at the marks his boots and fists made the week before. “Look at you, damaged piece of goods.”

“You damaged me.”

“I helped.”

Tommy can’t argue with that, because the damage inside him started long before he ever met Alfie Solomons. Slowly, he tugs his undershorts down, stepping out of them and standing completely naked in front of the still-clothed Alfie Solomons. “Have you done this before, Mister Solomons?”

Alfie clears his throat, “I have, yes.”

Tommy keeps his eyes on Alfie as he slowly reaches down to hold his cock, gently stroking it. He can see Alfie’s hands tightening around into fists and suddenly realises what it is he wants. To be here, to be standing on the knife-edge place where his cock is hard and his mind is empty and he’s only a few words away from either being pulled into a hug or smacked in the face. He can almost _taste_ it – the copper tin taste of his own blood in his mouth, the rushing in his ears, the pain of impact. And, crucially, he can _control_ it because here, standing naked in a room with his cock in his hand, somehow he feels completely and utterly in control. It helps enormously that Alfie is looking like a spooked rabbit caught in car headlights.

He nods at the cane and Alfie goes to pick it up. “Eight percent.”

“Eight?” Alfie asks, sounding a little skeptical.

“Eight.”

“And then?” Alfie moves in front of him and taps the cane against the outside of his leg. Tommy feels his cock jump up hard in his hand.

“Then I’m yours for whatever you’d like Mister Solomons.” He murmurs back.

The tip of the cane traces its way around his thigh as Alfie walks behind him. “That is a very dangerous thing to promise someone, Tommy.”

“I’m a dangerous man.” Tommy answers, and grins as he hears Alfie give a disbelieving snort. Standing here naked about to feel the hard stinging burn of the cane again he’s never felt less dangerous, or more powerful. “Eight percent.”

Alfie’s hand presses against his backside, squeezing around the curve of it and gently stroking at the yellow blotches still fading out against his skin. “I think, Tommy Shelby, that you are going to seriously regret this tomorrow morning.”

Tommy smiles, “I do hope so, Mister Solomons.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this just started off as an excuse to get Tommy thrashed and it turned into something more. I now have a sneaky suspicion that this fic is actually the start of the affair that "Just came out wrong, that's all" is the end of...


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